


Ricochets

by Sealie



Series: sga/traders II [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Traders (TV 1995)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-12
Updated: 2007-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stargate Atlantis/Traders crossover no' 13 [Atlantis: sur la mer segment]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ricochets

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG – some nastiness! Thirteen unlucky for some.  
> Spoilers: none -- set beginning of second season SGA and after Traders finished  
> Beta: LKY and Klostes.
> 
> This is a continuation of the Stargate Atlantis/Traders crossover series "Voyage par mer." This is not a WIP _per se_ , most of the stories are complete in themselves, it is -- by definition -- a series.

**Ricochets.**   
**  
by Sealie   
**

  
“I don’t think Teyla likes Grant,” Rodney said around a mouthful of breakfast grains.

“What?” It took a moment for John to process the observation. He was used to Rodney dropping bombshells and tangents in their conversations, but that had come completely out of left field. “Teyla likes Grant. Everyone likes Grant.”

“Well, you like him because… Hmmm--” Rodney masticated his mouthful slowly. “--You like him because, he’s a--”

“Your cousin? Or perhaps, because he’s a nice guy,” John pointed out. It seemed fairly straightforward to him.

Rodney mashed the last few grains in the bottom of his bowl into mush. John curled his nose up.

“So why do you think Teyla doesn’t like Grant?”

“She won’t look at him.”

John leaned back in his chair. “That doesn’t sound like Teyla. Teyla’s direct. If she had a problem with Grant, which is…”

“Inconceivable,” Rodney supplied in his ‘Princess Bride’ voice.

“Unlikely,” John inserted. “She’d tell him. Do something about it. And Grant wouldn’t do anything to hurt or upset Teyla. It’s…”

“Inconceivable.”

“Stop that. You were the one who started this.”

“Fact: Teyla will not look straight at Grant. Fact: Grant has not said a word to Teyla. Fact: Grant is sensitive to people emotions and acts accordingly.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” John resisted the temptation to stick his fingers in his ears and sing, loudly, off key.

“Always,” Rodney responded. “Only way to have sensible conversations.”

“Ask Teyla if she has a problem.” John sighed.

“I can’t, she’s on some sort of annual pilgrimage-come-celebration of our defeat against the Wraith. She’s back on Athos.”

“So ask Grant.”

“Oh, good idea.” Rodney flicked his ear mike, activating the private channel. “Grant, where are you?”

 _“There’s little seashells on the west pier with--”_

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, it’s breakfast time. Come to the commissary,” Rodney ordered.

 _‘But?’_ Grant protested.

“Grant.”

 _“Coming.”_ A dispirited sigh was audible over the comm..

It wasn’t too long; time to finish a bowl of Fruit Loops (Fruit Loops! Having the Dadaelus delivering supplies was, without a doubt, excellent) and make decent inroads into a second cup of coffee before Grant ambled into the mess.

Hunched, his eyes darted left and right, as he quickly assessed the busy room

John raised his hand and Grant lit up. You had to appreciate his absolute transparency, his obvious pleasure when he saw someone that he liked.

With his characteristic stooped walk, he rapidly dodged between the tables to their chosen spot.

Rodney opened the carton (carton! Dadaelus!) of milk and poured it on the Athosian baked grains that he had collected for Grant while selecting his own breakfast.

Grant slid onto a free seat. “Good morning,” he said brightly.

“Hey,” John stole the drips from Grant’s carton and added them to his coffee.

“We were talking,” Rodney interjected loudly, “about Teyla. Have you said anything to upset her?”

Head down, eating, Grant’s eyes slid left, not quite meeting Rodney’s gaze. “No, I don’t speak Athosian,” he added slowly, “yet.”

“Athosian?”

“‘Ya’, means,’ I’. ‘gdz’ is the tea that the Athosians drink. The structure seems to follow no rules of logic. I think that the verbs are conjugated backwards.” Grant hunched a little lower in his seat.

A light bulb was pinging loudly over Rodney’s head. He snapped his fingers, the quick clicking drawing the immediately attention of two scientists sitting on the table opposite them like a Pavlovian bell. A furtive scan of John’s table determined that they weren’t in trouble and they returned to their breakfast.

“You don’t hear English when you talk to Teyla, do you?” Rodney sounded gleeful.

“No,” Grant confirmed around a mouthful of grains.

“What?” John sat up straighter. “You don’t hear English?”

“Well, no,” Rodney answered. “This could be really interesting. We’ve wondered about the mechanism of language acquisition in the Stargate network. Both here and in our galaxy.” Rodney looked scathing. “You’ve never wondered why the Athosians and every other alien speaks English?”

“Well, yeah,” John answered. “Elizabeth said that the Stargate operated like a Babelfish. She didn’t say Babelfish – but that’s what she meant.”

“And,” Rodney said with authority, “Grant hasn’t been through the Stargate.”

“Ah…”

“If--” Grant tapped a nervous fingernail on the Formica table top, “--if I go through the Stargate, I’ll understand Vit e’ Emm-gen?”

“Yes.” Rodney smiled. “It will rewire your language centre.”

Grant dropped his spoon and planted both hands over his ears. “No. I don’t want to be rewired.”

“No. No. it doesn’t hurt.” Rodney stood and brushed off his hands. “It doesn’t do anything, well anything -- bad. Right, have to go and talk to Elizabeth and pick a safe planet to visit.” And with that he stalked off.

Grant slowly uncovered his ears. “I don’t want to be rewired,” he repeated plaintively.

“I’ve been through the ‘gate hundreds of times,” John offered. “It’s okay, Grant, and it will mean that you’ll understand Teyla and Halling and the other Athosians.”

“Well.” Grant pushed a single grain of cereal across the table with his fingertip, back and forth – back and forth. “If you say so.”

~*~

John waited by the quiescent Stargate, hands cupped over the butt of his vest-hooked P-90. Major Lorne and two of the mission’s botanists waited patiently at his side for their first trip through the Atlantis ‘gate network.

He was not one hundred percent sure of the logic of the Babelgate; they must have met at least one person on one their numerous trips, who had not been through the Stargate, yet everyone that they had met had spoke English.

And if Rodney’s theory was correct why hadn’t the SGC investigated the phenomenon? Surely diplomats from alien races had visited and spoken to earth representatives who had not been through the ‘gate?

Slowly, he rotated on one heel to face the Stargate. Perhaps it just needed proximity? He had not read a lot of the diplomatic treatises -- he preferred mission reports -- but given the SGC and White House’s paranoia, he doubted that any of the Tok’ra or whoever had been allowed on American soil had been allowed to leave the confines of the SGC. Although it was possible that alien visitors had their own translator devices. He remembered the creepy Roswell grey on the Dadaelus; it seemed likely that the high-tech aliens had their own Babelfish.

“I don’t know about this,” Grant said, echoing his thoughts as he shuffled nervously up next to John. “I don’t want to be rewired. I don’t want to be converted into particles and reassembled.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” John made a quick visual check. Grant wore Rodney’s spare field uniform, sans P-90, topped with his floppy boonie hat.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Rodney double timed it up the steps to the embarkation platform with Sergeant Stackhouse marching at his heels. “Did you get a CAT scan?”

Grant shuffled and didn’t answer.

“Grant.” Rodney persisted, to no response. He heaved out a sigh and tapped his earpiece. “Carson? Carson?”

“Yes, Rodney?” Carson said with a distracted air.

“Did you give Grant an all clear to go through the Stargate?”

“Trevelyan’s on dut– Grant through the Stargate? Are you insane?”

“We want to initialise his Babelfish”

“You what?”

“You heard.”

“Trevelyan!” Carson yelled, making Rodney wince. “You cleared Grant for ‘gate travel?”

Rodney screwed up his nose as he dialled down the volume on his earpiece.

Grant made a sideways shuffle, aiming for the exit.

“Ah!” Rodney snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. “Stay.”

“What?” Carson asked, snapped.

“Not you, Carson,” Rodney said. “We’re just going through to P4M-792 – you know our prospective alpha site. Grant doesn’t understand Athosian. He needs to be initiated.”

“— d” There was an audible intake of breath. “That’s interesting. That’s an interesting hypothesis, but likely a load of complete bollocks.”

“Yes. I assumed that proximity would work too. But Grant’s… when Grant comes back you can give him a CAT scan and see what changes have been made.”

Grant squeaked and rocked foot to foot, a hairsbreadth from bolting.

“A CAT scan wouldn’t do that,” Carson offered. “The ancient version of the fMRI would be better.”

“And have you given Grant an fMRI?” Rodney’s tone rose with the question.

“Hmmm, yes; standard medical when we came back. But,” he continued, his accent a little stronger, “I’m not comfortable with Grant--”

There was loud clatter and a strident call for Dr. Beckett’s assistance over the line.

“Oh, bugger, poor wee pet,” Carson said. “Rodney, hold on, I’ve got an emergency.”

Rodney huffed and crossed his arms. Constitutionally incapable of wasting time hanging around, his foot tapped a staccato beat. “Dr. Trevelyan,” he called over his comm.

“Yes sir?” a welsh voice answered immediately.

“Did you clear Grant Jansky for ‘gate travel?”

“Yes. Dr Jansky? Yes. Excuse me, busy.” The man was abrupt and the click of the comm. switching off was loud.

Rodney called up to the control balcony overhead. “You ‘gate technician, dial P4M-792.”

“McKay,” John spoke. “Let’s wait until the Doc’s free.”

“Look, we’re ready to go.” He pointed to John’s attire, finger moving between John, Grant, Major Lorne and the scientists loaded down with backpacks, like a conductor. “Dr. Trevelyan cleared Grant. We’re ready to go. We can go through the ‘gate, dial straight back and push Grant through. It will be two minutes, if that.”

Behind them the event horizon whooshed, the vortex reaching out.

Grant flinched violently. “I don’t want to go.”

“Grant, we’ve been through this already. It’s perfectly safe – Carson’s just being a worrywart.” Rodney raised his hands beseechingly. “You go through the ‘gate like hundreds of thousands of people who have been through the ‘gate for millennia, get the language upgrade and come straight back.”

The event horizon settled, familiar and normal.

John pondered. Trevelyan was like all of the medical personnel -- like ninety nine percent of the personnel on Atlantis -- intelligent and competent.

They had picked the safest planet on their list and they could send Grant straight back rather than showing him the trees and greenery and a typically boring day of a SG-Atlantis field team.

“Grant?”

Grant was looking at the Stargate, twisting his fingers together like intricate Celtic knotwork.

“Grant,” John repeated, his voice quiet. “You want to try the best ride in the universe?”

That set a bright light in Grant’s eyes.

“It’s better than that rope swing out over the pond,” Rodney suddenly volunteered. “You remember, the one behind Mrs. Williams’ house when we were kids.”

Grant made a quick, determined fervent nod and then, with a duck of his shoulders, scurried to the ‘gate.

“Shit, NO!” John moved. But Grant, evidently deciding that screwing up his courage and jumping feet first into the pool rather than thinking about it, moved like a greased pig.

Head down, Grant breached the wormhole meniscus and was whisked away.

~*~

Grant ran double quick-time down a little grassy hillock. Slipping on dew damp grass, he stumbled, arms flailing. He went down full length when clipped from behind. Flyboy stayed on his feet, sliding down the grassy knoll as if on a surfboard.

“Grant, never do that again!” John leaned over and hollered right in his face and Grant read utter fury in eyes which were so green they blazed.

Grant stayed lying on his back, the dew damping his skin. The sky overhead was an impossible Variscite green, or maybe it was the reflection of John’s anger.

Rodney came out of the ‘gate as if shot from a cannon. His feet went straight out from under him and he went down on his bottom with a thump and slithered down the hill.

John stepped neatly to the side as Rodney slewed past him.

The Stargate disengaged the soldiers but the non-combatant scientists remained behind.

“Sir?” Lorne asked, P-90 cocked as he scanned the green glade area. “Everything okay?”

Rodney sat up and glowering, pulled out his ambient energy detector. “Nothing within a hundred meters.”

“We’re fine.” John offered Grant a hand.

Grant took it, relieved that he hadn’t upset Flyboy too much. He just had to go through the ‘gate. If he hadn’t, he probably would never have found the courage. And he needed to understand Rodney’s friend Teyla. Rodney didn’t say, Rodney probably wasn’t even aware of it, but Teyla was important to his cousin. The Leader of the Athosians was intelligent, bright and wise, and a creature that Grant knew that he wouldn’t be able to fathom in a hundred thousand years. But Rodney respected his team member, and Rodney didn’t respect a lot of people.

“Can we bring the botanists through?” Lorne asked

John nodded.

Lorne triggered his comm.. “Parrish and Nagra are clear to come through.”

They appeared almost immediately. The younger of the two, bright eyed and bushy tailed, looked around with evident glee.

“I don’t believe it. It’s true. West Coast _Pseudotsuga menziesii_ … and is that a _Tsuga albertiana_? This is a coastal ecosystem, isn’t it? Although, I don’t recognise… it could be an _Abies_ variant?” Nose twitching like a rabbit’s, he darted across the glade, heading to a closely grouped bank of three entwined trees.

John jerked his head towards Parrish, assigning Lorne to the rapidly moving botanist.

The second botanist, a small woman with jet black hair pulled back in a tight braid, was already standing next to Stackhouse as close as humanly possible and still leaving a polite distance. She didn’t look as if she wanted to leave the protection of Stackhouse’s immediate vicinity any time soon based on the furtive glances she gave the Stargate, glade, bank of trees, Stargate, glade, bank of trees…

Grumbling, Rodney stood brushing at the back of his wet, grass stained trousers. “I don’t believe it.”

“Okay, let’s close the ‘gate, redial and send Grant back.”

“Shaheen!” Parrish called waving a magnifying glass in mid air. “Come see this. There’s interstitial hairs protecting obvert stomata in needle leaf structure.”

“Botanists,” Rodney mocked lowly, as Shaheen, and Stackhouse in attendance, bustled over to the trees.

“Atlantis, this is Sheppard,” John said over his comm.. “We’re going to dial back and send Grant home.”

Chin raised and mouth open, Grant turned in a slow circle watching the greenish sky. The sun he knew from the mission specs was a class G2 similar to Earth’s sun. There had to be a component in the atmosphere to account for the greenish cast.

“Acknowledged,” the ‘gate technician said and the wormhole winked out.

“Dial it up, McKay,” John ordered.

Rodney reached for the first pad just as the chevrons lit up around the ring. “Incoming wormhole.” He stepped back from the DHD.

“Atlantis?” John asked succinctly.

“No way to know. But doubtful; it was too quick. The lag time between closing the wormhole on this side and initiating implies that--”

“Cover!” John hollered. “Incoming wormhole: unknowns!”

Lorne and Stackhouse did not vacillate, grabbing their respective botanists and bodily hauling them into the heavy shrub layer under the canopy of trees.

“McKay.” John pointed to the edge of the Stargate glade and the denser undergrowth. “Grant, come on.”

“I--?” Grant managed as John grabbed his vest and yanked him from his blissful study of a new world.

“Grant, come on,” Rodney echoed, planting both hands on Grant’s back and pushing him along, forcing him into a lurching run. “Run!”

“I’m running.”

“Faster! Faster!” Rodney chivvied, pulling up the rear.

The edge of the grassy glade stopped abruptly like a cookie cutter in a layer of dough, clean and tendered grass leading to messy, vibrant undergrowth. Grant stopped and Rodney barrelled over the top of him and together they tumbled into dense matt of wide purplish plate-like leaves. John neatly jumped over them as they sprawled. The ground was soft and springy like sphagnum moss. John crouched beside them, dropping low behind a spiky bush to keep an eye on the Stargate.

“Quiet,” he ordered, hand dropping down in the universal sign of shut up.

The event horizon stabilised and five, high collared, brown-uniformed men and women stepped in formation through the wormhole.

“Shit,” John said resignedly, “Genii.”

~*~

Sheppard sighted along the scope of his P-90, his aim fixed unerringly over the heart of the lead Genii, a square jawed, close cropped brown-haired, six-footer who screamed military through and through. In tandem, the Genii team crouched, reducing their target and scanning the immediate area.

“Lorne?” Sheppard asked lowly over his ear piece.

“I’ve got the woman on the right covered, sir.” Hard faced and steely gazed, she would have been Sheppard’s next choice of target.

“The scientist-type, sir,” Stackhouse inserted.

Sheppard’s eyes flicked right, checking that his subordinates, across the cleared Stargate area, were well concealed in the dense undergrowth. The ‘scientist-type’ was only identified as a potential non-combatant by his overloaded backpack. SGC veterans knew the scientists were dangerous. This was a team of soldiers, a strike force of trained men and women.

A sixth stepped through the open wormhole. Craggy faced and instantaneously recognisable.

“Kolya,” Sheppard grated.

“What?” McKay squeaked.

“Quiet,” Sheppard ordered and McKay burrowed further into the umbrella-like leaves, smothering Grant with his body.

“Lanteans, I know that you are here,” Kolya’s strong tenor echoed throughout the glade.

McKay’s head popped up. “How does he know that?” he mouthed.

Sheppard set the cross hairs of his sight directly between Kolya’s eyebrows. The man stood tall as his team crouched around his feet like supplicants.

“Stackhouse, Lorne, take your botanists and retreat to the Mineral Caves,” Sheppard whispered intensely in his comm..

“Why don’t you just shoot him?” McKay muttered.

“Believe you me, I’m tempted, but there are rules. I think that Elizabeth would object.”

“It’s okay, I’ll side with you. It’s a good decision. Shoot!”

Sheppard shot him dark look. “I can’t shoot him in cold blood.”

“He’d shoot you.”

“Well, I’m supposed to be better than him.”

Face down in the leaves, Grant mumbled. McKay managed in wriggle a hand over his mouth.

“Okay, this is the plan,” Sheppard said. “We’re going to back out of here slowly and retreat to the Mineral Caves.”

“What sort of plan is that?” McKay snapped.

“A plan where no one gets hurt.” Sheppard jerked his head emphasising that they should move, immediately.

McKay’s head was pushed up against Grant’s as he whispered instructions. When Grant finally raised his head, his lips were pursed tightly together. On hands and knees, he shuffled backwards. McKay crawled at his side, alternatively glancing through the spiky bushes to the glade and back to his cousin.

~*~

Sheppard jogged, one hand firmly planted between McKay’s shoulder blades as he propelled the man forwards. McKay had a grip on the collar of Grant’s TAC vest.

This was an absolute nightmare. Pegasus kept handing him these lessons, but he never learned. They had three trained military personnel and four non-combatants – one of whom could not be expected to follow instructions. Although that was unfair, so far Grant had kept his mouth shut, head down and ran without complaint. Next time he brought non-combatants he was bringing a four marines: one civilian ratio.

Grant stumbled, and McKay kept him upright as they ploughed along an animal track to the Mineral Caves. Unlike the majority of the planets that they visited, P4M-792 had never seemed to be populated despite the presence of a Stargate. They were on the equivalent of an animal highway – the largest mammal on P4M-792 was the size of a blackbuck antelope without the spiral horns – worn smooth by the passage of countless animals over decades. The Mineral Caves supplied both a reliable water supply and cover from the region’s intense sea storms.

Sheppard glanced back, checking that they hadn’t left any overt signs of their passage. Trekking through the understory would have left a myriad of broken stems and mashed purple leaves to easily track.

There was a crack and Sheppard stopped, yanking McKay to a halt, Grant went down on his hands and knees.

“Sir?” Lorne stepped out from behind a stubby tree, looking down the sights of his P-90.

“We’re clear.”

“Stackhouse is at the primary cave with Parrish and Nagra.”

As part of the detailed, comprehensive SG-protocol to officially sanction a planet as an alpha site, long time series of environmental data were required and the scientists had set up recording equipment in the cave complex, partly to protect the tech linked to the arrays set up throughout the area and partly to determine if the caves might offer habitation.

Rodney helped Grant to his feet. “Can I talk now? Should I talk?” he asked piteously. “What’s happening?”

“In a second.” Sheppard held up a hand. “Lorne, get McKay and Grant to the cave. I’m going back to figure out what Kolya’s here for.”

“What? Are you insane!” McKay shrieked.

“Major,” Sheppard said ignoring McKay’s protests.

“Come on, Dr. McKay.” Lorne chivvied them along with the barrel of his P-90. “Keep in touch, sir.”

Sheppard tapped his ear piece in acknowledgment.

Without having to force two less than marathon-healthy runners in front of him, Sheppard could double time it back up the track.

  
~*~

It was all too fast. The patterns in the chaos spoke loudly of danger, danger which was not manifest when working in a bank in Toronto. Flyboy and Lorne were dense with concern, worried for the people around them.

The cave was damp and cold, but he was happy to sit on the sandy floor. He brushed at fleshy base of his palms, they were scuffed and scratched, little pieces of dirt and splinters embedded in the cuts.

“Hey, let me look,” Rodney ordered brusquely, taking command of his hand.

Mutely, Grant held both hands higher so Rodney could see.

“Doesn’t look too bad.” Rodney fumbled at his med-kit and pulled out a plastic wrapped tissue. Using his teeth, he tore open the sachet.

Grant sniffed loudly as he submitted to the cleaning.

“What’s happening, Rodney?”

“They’re called Genii, they covet our technology. Long story short, they thought that they could use us, we proved opposite.”

“And the man?” Grant pulled one hand free and sketched a tight, clenching ball, clawing with his fingers at mid-air.

Rodney was quick, he didn’t need any translating. “Kolya? Commander in the Genii military. Ruthless military commander.”

“John doesn’t like--” Grant leaned in closely, “--him.”

“It’s mutual.” Rodney nipped at a flap of skin and pinched out a sliver of wood

“OW.” Grant yanked his hand free, sticking it in his mouth as blood welled.

The Pakistani botanist shuffled over on her knees on the sandy floor. She held a small aerosol can which she offered to Rodney. He accepted it turning it over in his large, square hands to read the label.

“Good idea,” he acknowledged.

Nagra’s dusky skin flushed with pleasure. “It’s easier than elastoplasts.”

“Give me your hands, Grant,” Rodney ordered.

“No.” Grant said around his hand as he sucked.

“Baby.” Rodney derided, he clicked his fingers, demandingly.

Reluctantly, Grant extended his hand. Wielding a little aerosol can, Rodney sprayed his palms with a shiny, flexible seal. Intrigued, he held out his other hand and the other palm was treated.

“Keep an eye on them – Carson’s paranoid about alien bugs.”

“Bugs?” Grant echoed, peering intently at his new shiny hands, there weren’t any insects under the coating.

Shaking his head, Rodney abandoned him, moving to the entrance of the cave where Lorne stood, facing outwards. Grant shuffled down, resting his back against the cave wall, watching. The soldier’s normally smooth café-crème aura had curdled.

“Doctor,” Lorne said neutrally, “everyone okay?”

“You tell me! What’s the colonel doing?” Rodney reached for his comm..

“Don’t call him; he’s on reconnaissance,” Lorne snapped. “You’ll give away his position.”

“How do you know he’s okay? He could be shot, bleeding out!”

“Doc, chill!” Lorne tapped the transmitter in his TAC vest pocket. “He’s pinging on channel sixteen every five minutes.”

“What?” Rodney fumbled at his own radio unit, twisting the knob on the top, tuning to the secure channel. “Oh, ping!” he reported.

Lorne’s smile was twisted. “What happened there, Dr. McKay? Were these Genii lying in wait for us? It seems a bit coincidental that they came through when they did.”

“When Kolya led the assault on Atlantis.” Rodney rubbed at his forearm. “They did take the opportunity to look at the databases. This planet, among others, was listed as a potential uninhabited safe planet to be assessed. If the Genii, like the Wraith, believe that Atlantis was destroyed they’re probably hunting for survivors for intel. and this is a possible bolt hole. They could have set an alarm on the ‘gate, trigging a dialling sequence from their base of operations when we dialled in.”

“That Commander? Kolya?”

Rodney nodded. “Acastus Kolya. He led the assault on Atlantis and we had a run in with him on Dagan. The colonel threatened to kill him, if he interfered again.”

“I remember the AAR.” Lorne pursed his lips. “This Kolya said ‘Lanteans’, he didn’t call for Colonel Sheppard. I think that you’re right, he's trolling for survivors.”

“We might be able to work with that,” Rodney mused.

“Uhm?” Grant lurched onto his knees as Rodney and the Major turned to him. He tried to lay out the problem: the Genii coveted the technology of Atlantis; the Genii therefore wanted the scientists that understood the technology; Major-Colonel John Flyboy and Kolya were enemies. “Have you tried talking to them? Explained that we’re supposed to be fighting the Wraith?” Grant asked.

“Oh--” Rodney rolled his eyes, “--who died and made you Dr. Weir?”

“I don’t think that’s very nice,” Grant huffed, getting to his feet. “It’s not very sensible for the Genii to waste resources and energy against other human races when the Wraith are threatening entire civilisations.”

“Well, if you come up against Kolya you tell him that,” Rodney said nastily. “I’ll be running in the opposite direction.”

Grant shut up, cowed by the snap in his cousin’s voice. Rodney was pale and his eyes were a little wild, the roiling shimmer over his skin was a translucent dull grey. Grant decided that if Rodney was running for the horizon, he was going to race him.

~*~

Sheppard lay on the rocky ridge. It didn’t offer much in the way of elevation, but it did offer a slight advantage of being above his enemy if he was spotted. Using the sight of his P-90, he watched and covered the clearing.

A highly disgruntled Kolya stood cross-armed beside the DHD. His team were scouring the woods for the Atlantis contingent, but they didn’t even have confirmation that they were on the planet. Three other uniformed Genii had arrived, while he had been conducting Grant and McKay to the caves. Two were manhandling two heavy crates beside the DHD and the third stood with his hand breaching the event horizon, ensuring that it stayed open.

Sheppard glanced at his watch -- it was coming up to thirty eight minutes. Atlantis had to be concerned and would be waiting for the opportunity to make contact. The ‘gate link from the Genii end was about to wink out and Atlantis would dial in. He blotted his forehead with his wrist band.

“Halpern!” Kolya called. The second in command jogged out of the woods. The rest of the team bar one emerged. They evidently had been returning from their search of the immediate area.

“I found recent tracks, Commander.” The scientist-type pointed in the direction of the Mineral Caves.

Kolya ignored him. “Arrange yourselves, if the survivors of Atlantis have indeed sent a party here, they will be dialling in any moment.”

“We’re ready, Commander.” The duo at the cannon stood to attention. Sheppard shuffled along the ridge a fraction and lifted his head, now he could see the cannon clearly it drew a spooky resemblance to a MK 108 anti-aircraft weapon – a simple, efficient design repeated like the form of sharks and dolphins.

The third Genii pulled his arm back and the Stargate winked out. The chevrons immediately began to encode. Sheppard checked his transmitter, ensuring that it was now on channel twelve. The vortex whooshed and settled.

“Colonel Sheppard, are you there? Do you require assistance?”

Halpern held a radio transmitter, he nodded frantically at Kolya. “He’s here!”

“We have a Genii incursion. Team of nine personnel,” Sheppard reported, tersely. “Be advised they are guarding the ‘gate with anti-aircraft artillery, barrel length about 4 foot, 30-40mm calibre, three cases of rounds. It will take out a puddlejumper.”

“There he is!” Heralded the spang of rounds zeroing in on his position. Hot fire raced up his arm.

“Shit.” Sheppard dropped his P-90, rolling back into the cover of the gulley as more rounds ricocheted overhead.

His arm was saturated, the flapping edge of his torn jacket wet with blood. Swearing, he headed down the angled gully, leaving a bloody trail on the rock face. He hit the understory on hands and knees. The P-90 clipped to his vest bruised his thighs as he ran, curled over his bleeding arm. He crashed through the undergrowth, trying to put as much distance between himself and his pursuit. The trick was to get far enough ahead that he had time to deal with his arm and then move more cautiously.

He dropped behind a stocky, twisted-over tree and burrowed under the closely packed branches and leaves. Using his knife he slit the sleeve from his jacket. As he had lain on his stomach, the round had gouged a deep furrow through the fleshy top of his forearm and then nicked a shallower score on the bony edge of his shoulder joint. An inch to the left and he would have taken a round in right in the eye. As it was his right ear burned. He could and did loop a field dressing around his forearm, hissing as he bound it as tight as possible. The shoulder was marginally more difficult – tense and hot, he wondered if he had cracked the socket joint.

“Blood!” a voice said exultantly. “We have a trail.”

~*~

“He hasn’t pinged.” McKay waggled the radio transmitter unit right in the incompetent Major Lorne’s face.

“I’m well aware of that,” Lorne said with gritted teeth. “He’s probably--”

“Engaging the enemy! You should go out there and help him.” McKay pointed jerkily to the exit just in case the solider couldn’t find it.

“I have my orders, Dr. McKay.”

“Major!” Stackhouse scrambled up to the cave entrance from the forest below. “I’ve been monitoring the SG-A standard frequency. Atlantis just contacted us. Colonel Sheppard advised them of the situation but then his position was compromised.”

Lorne nodded abruptly. He took his transmitter from his vest, forgoing using the ear piece. Tuning to the required frequency, he said quietly in to the handset, “Colonel Sheppard, please respond.”

 _“Not now, Major.”_ The response was taut.

“I…” McKay began.

Lorne’s finger came up like a shot. Releasing the send button, he listened to the frequency. McKay leaned forwards, trying to tune his body like a receiving station. Grant shuffled up to them. A deep seated tremor made him shiver violently as he pushed up against McKay.

“He’s breathing very hard. He’s in pain,” Grant reported softly.

 _“They’ve got AAW aimed at the ‘gate to prevent any ‘jumper coming through. But I figure st--”_

 _“Colonel Sheppard, please respond!”_ Elizabeth’s voice sounded shrill and disconcertingly loud – revealingly loud. The line went silent.

“Oh, no!” McKay scrabbled at his own vest radio. “Elizabeth, shut up. You’ll compromise Colonel Sheppard’s position."

 _“Ah, McKay’s dulcet tones join the fray,”_ Kolya said.

McKay dropped the radio like it burnt.

 _“You touch him and I’ll kill you.”_

 _“Empty threats, Colonel Sheppard, you’re a wounded animal running scared. I’m going to hunt you down.”_

“Wounded!” McKay snatched up his radio from the sandy floor.

Lorne growled, a deep angry growl. “Stackhouse, stay with the civilians.”

“Finally, evidence of logical thought.”

Lorne ignored him. “Sergeant, I’ll be on channel six.”

“I’m coming with you,” McKay said authoritatively, raising his chin.

“I don’t think so, _Doctor_ ,” Lorne emphasised the noun.

“I’ve been on an SG-A team for over a year; I’ve got more Pegasus experience than you.”

“So look after your cousin, Dr. McKay.” Lorne looked pointedly at the man clinging to Rodney’s jacket sleeve with both hands. To sweeten the deal, he added, “And Parrish and Nagra.”

Lorne didn’t wait for a reply. Ducking low, he ran from the cave, jogging down the slight rocky incline and disappearing quickly into the dense vegetation.

“Flyboy’s hurt?” Grant asked.

“It’s probably nothing. He gets shot a lot. He’s used to it.”

“Can you get used to being shot?” Grant asked intently.

“Any pain can be desensitised.” Rodney ignored Stackhouse rolling his eyes. Grant tugged at his sleeve. “Look, Grant, the Colonel dealt with fifty plus Genii. There’s six of them; we’ll be out of here in twenty minutes.”

“What’s he going to do?”

Rodney deliberately did not meet Grant’s wide, guileless eyes. It wasn’t difficult. Grant wasn’t fond of meeting anyone’s gaze especially when he didn’t want answers to his more difficult questions.

“He’s going to make sure that we get home.”

~*~

“This is ridiculous. I can’t stand this!” Rodney blew to his feet like Mount Vesuvius erupting. “I can’t sit around here doing nothing.”

“Sir,” Stackhouse responded. “I can’t let you wander… what do you know about these caves?”

“Caves? Do I look like a geologist?”

“Uhm, What does a… You’ve read the reports, are the caves in this cliff face interlinked?”

Rodney spun around. “You mean that they might be able to creep up on us?”

Grant inhaled a deep breath. The air was salty and fresh. The entrance was on the wooded side of the ridge and that air was redolent with pine and resins. They hadn’t seen or heard the sea, so scent on the air in the caves was funnelled from the sea side.

“This cave links to the sea,” Grant informed them.

“How do you know that?” Parrish asked. The sandy headed man was rifling in his backpack.

Grant sniffed snottily.

A beam from a flashlight shone into the back of the cave, darkness gobbled it up. “Goes deep,” Parrish said unnecessarily.

“We should check it out, check for escape routes or Genii creeping up on us,” Rodney said with authority.

“Dr. McKay,” Stackhouse began.

Grant stumbled to his feet, a little off balance standing without using his hands, and joined Dr. Parrish. Poor Sergeant-Lieutenant-Captain-whatever Stackhouse had made a basic mistake trying to distract Rodney by offering him the unknown. He should have told him to re-jig electronic equipment stacked in the cave – to see if it could be interfaced with the energy detector to increase its range so that they could find the positions of John and the bad men. The unknown -- the attic stairs, the mysteries of the end of the block, the contents of the fruit bowl out of reach on the top of the fridge -- were an adventure even toddler Rodney had never been able to resist.

Parrish was bright and young and too naïve to understand that this adventure was scary and they would be much better off in Atlantis. Nagra understood the reality of the situation. She stayed close enough to Stackhouse to grab. Rodney and Stackhouse were talking with their hands, finger fighting underscoring their words. Rodney was winning.

Drawn to the back of the cave and the darkness, Parrish followed the dust motes sparkling in the length of the beam.

“No. no. no. no.” Grant protested joining him. “We have to stay together.”

“I’m just going a little way back, Dr. Jansky.”

“What? Stop!” Stackhouse called. “Scientists! It’s like herding cats.”

Madness flared. Astounded Grant watched a spark of light erupt from the rock face. An explosive bang -- short and nasty -- made him flinch. Decibels reverberated. Another light flared a milli-second later on the other side of the cave with a less noisy, but no less painful, bang. The angle of refraction was…

“Ricochet!” Rodney tackled Grant in the stomach and drove him like a pile driver into the ground.

His boonie hat went flying and the air whooshed out of his lungs. The sparks rippled across the ceiling. Shielding his ears from the deafening noise, Grant curled into a ball.

“Grant, come on!” Hands scrabbled at his collar and began to drag him across the sand.

Stackhouse crawled past him, walking efficiently on his elbows, P-90 held off the sand.

“Come on. Come on!” Parrish half hidden against the side of the cave beckoned frantically.

“Go!” Rodney smacked Grant across the back on his head.

Stackhouse rolled onto his back and blindly sprayed the cave entrance with rounds. The noise was stunning.

Grant found one plus one and it equalled two, and he crawled. Parrish was tucked up against, what Grant had thought was a rocky protuberance, but further beyond him darkness beckoned. He stood at the end of a tunnel at angles to the large cave. The beam from Parrish’s flashlight on the floor, stretched off into infinity minus one.

“Sergeant--” Rodney yelled over the firing, “--tunnel three meters from your position on your right!”

“Cover me.”

Rodney, pushing Parrish further into the tunnel, turned and drew his gun. Dexterously, he swapped it from right hand to left, and hugging the edge of the rock where tunnel met cave, fired round after round over Stackhouse’s head.

Stackhouse crawled to safety and slithered up behind McKay. “Go follow the tunnel, hopefully, it’s not a dead end or too small for us to crawl out.”

Rodney opened his mouth to speak, but saw the grenade held in Stackhouse’s hand. Eyes wide, he ducked around Stackhouse. Grant was already reaching for his hand, to let him pull him to his feet.

“What about Shaheen?”

Rodney’s eyes spoke of horror and Grant didn’t ask.

“Go. Go. GO!” Stackhouse ordered and drew back his arm.

Parrish swung the flashlight illuminating the floor.

“Fire in the hold!” Stackhouse yelled.

Grant ran, hands clapped over his ears.

~*~  
“I want to go home! I don’t like it here.” Grant spun in a circle.

“I’m not fond of it myself!” McKay snapped, dropping tiredly on a purple seaweed covered rock. He had a stone in his boot, despite lacing them up tightly. Waves crashed on the steep rocky shore and the air was redolent with ozone.

“Down!”

“That man and his explosives.” McKay dropped to the pebbly sand crouching behind his perch. He caught Grant’s sleeve and yanked him down. Parrish chose the boulder to their left and hunkered down, eyes tightly closed and arms wrapped over his head, protectively.

Stackhouse slid down on the pebbles at their feet.

The boom of the explosion was muffled as the grenade detonated in the tunnel they had emerged from. Air stretched and then the entire rock face sighed and obliterated the exit as it dropped like a curtain.

“Rodney,” Grant bleated.

“No!” McKay barked. “Breakdown when we get back to Atlantis – not now, you hear!”

“They were shooting at us.”

“Tell me something that I don’t know.”

“I have to admit, I agree with Dr. Jansky.” Parrish was white and his eyes red rimmed.

“Welcome to Pegasus,” McKay said snottily.

Stackhouse clambered up on McKay’s rock to better check the rocky shoreline. “Colonel Sheppard? Major Lorne?” he called over his comm. unit. “Please respond?”

The grey rock face above them stretched as sheer as the white cliffs of Dover, easily one hundred metres high and unscalable with the equipment that they had on hand. The shore was narrow and strewn with smooth boulders. Massive storms periodically battered the cliffs.

“We can’t stay here,” McKay said, pointing at the line of reddish algae marring the rock face far above their heads.

“Why?” Parrish asked, and then his mouth fell open with realisation.

“What?” Stackhouse demanded.

“That’s the waterline,” McKay explained, “and it’s above our heads.”

“Far above our heads,” Grant said around his fingers.

“And the tide’s coming,” McKay followed up acerbically.

~*~

Sheppard gritted teeth and clamped down on his shoulder. The pain flooded, and endorphins spiked. Exhaustion rushed away. He had taken two Genii down, both with his k-bar knife. But the second had scored a solid punch to his shoulder before Sheppard had driven the knife heart-home.

Sheppard tipped his head back, so a line of sweat slid along his temple and into his hair instead of into his eye. There was a life sign just ahead of him behind one of the twisty, gnarled trees that were interspersed between the more familiar firs.

Silently, each foot careful set, he crept towards his quarry. He ghosted over the fallen leaves and branches, breaths matching the whispering of the leaves overhead.

On an exhale, he came around the trunk, knife flashing in the muted sunlight and embedded the blade in the wood an inch from Major Lorne’s head.

“Holy fuck!” Lorne said.

“Major,” Sheppard ground out.

“Sir.” The blood drained from the major’s face.

“Where,” Sheppard said slowly, “are the civilians?”

“At the Mineral Caves with Sergeant Stackhouse.”

“I gave you an order.”

Lorne’s eyes flashed to the bloody bandage badly wrapped around his shoulder. “You took a hit.”

“Flesh wound.”

“Yes, sir, flesh wound.” The field dressing was sopping. “Shall we return to the caves?”

“You disobeyed a direct order; we’ll be taking this up, back at Atlantis.”

“Yes, sir.” Lorne swallowed. His hand moved, unconsciously flicking towards the caves. “Shall we go?”

“After you.”

Lorne ducked his head and moved down the trail. Sheppard’s life signs detector only showed two humans in the immediate vicinity, and some smaller signals, evidently wildlife.

“Colonel, what’s happening at the ‘gate?”

“Atlantis had dialled in, but the Genii were guarding the ‘gate with anti-aircraft weaponry. Zelenka’s probably welding sheet metal on the ‘jumper as we speak.” He glanced at his watch. “Gate closes in fourteen minutes and then the Genii have control for thirty eight minutes unless we can get to the DHD and manually shut down the ‘gate.”

“Just fourteen minutes? Jeez.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“Will Dr. Weir send through a platoon of marines preceded by stun weaponry?”

“I think it’s likely that she’ll send a MALP through first to scope out the situation. Knowing Elizabeth, she’ll send them through on the next contact.” Sheppard smiled with teeth. “Why don’t we ask her?”

Lorne had the grace to look abashed as Sheppard pulled out his radio.

“Elizabeth?”

 _“Colonel, thank god. Are you okay?”_

“As well as can be expected,” Sheppard said circumspectly, aware that that the Genii were listening. “Just so you’re aware. No Atlantis personnel are near the Stargate.”

Kolya over-road their conversation. _“The woman with the dark skin and the shiny black hair dies if you send anyone through.”_

“You harm one hair on her head and I’ll gut you before I kill you,” Sheppard said.

Lorne spoke into his own comm.. “Stackhouse? Update?”

The hiss was audible and ominous. Lorne closed his eyes against the pain of knowing that he had left them with only one guard. It was not an auspicious beginning to his stint as Sheppard’s second-in-command.

~*~

 

“We called them the Mineral Caves for a reason,” McKay said.

“Sir?” Stackhouse clicked on his radio futilely.

“Short explanation: electromagnetic interference. Radio waves, particularly the shorter wavelengths, travel in straight lines. Radio waves at very high frequencies between 100 and 300 Mhz do not propagate through large masses of earth.” McKay jerked his thumb at the rock face on their left as they trudged along the shoreline.

“The minerals probably result in the phenomenon known as destructive interference,” Grant interjected, he held his left hand so the tips of his fingers touched his right hand. “Several waves are coming together in such as way that their electric fields cancel one another almost completely. The field of one wave might point southwards while the field of another wave is directly northwards. The resulting response in your antenna is very weak and the reception is, well, terrible.”

“That doesn’t mean that you should stop trying,” McKay offered, his hands describing their own passage of electromagnetic waves. “Statistically it’s not likely, but it’s not impossible that we’ll make contact.”

A wave of foamy surf washed over their ankles. In the space of ten minutes the water had rose half the width of the narrow shore. Luckily, the waves offshore were weighty rolls rather than choppy storm tips.

“It might not be a high tide, you know.” Parrish huffed as he slipped and slid over the purple algae covered rocks amidst the larger boulders.

“It won’t be.” McKay automatically lent Grant a hand as a stone moved under his foot, grabbing his elbow.

“What?” Stackhouse stopped dead.

McKay rolled his eyes. What did they teach at Air Force school? Grant stopped at his side and breathed in and out heavily. It was difficult traversing over the rocky terrain. The urge to explain was irresistible and it did mean that they would get a little break.

“Sun.” McKay pointed at the G2 setting behind them; it was approximately twenty degrees from the horizon. He drew a wide arc in the sky leading Stackhouse’s gaze to the dual pair of moons rising before them. “The gravitational forces of the moons and sun aren’t in alignment therefore we will not have a ‘high tide’ by definition. But--” McKay looked pointedly at Parrish, “--I now turn the next part of our lecture over to the resident botanist.”

Caught on the spot, Parrish blanched with horror. “What?”

“Do I have to do everything? Okay, squishy biology coming up. All these rocks underfoot are covered in algae.” Obediently, everyone looked at the slippy purple algae which was making walking so difficult.

“Oh,” Parrish said with realisation.

“Water attenuates light. Attenuation depends on wavelength. Blue light is absorbed least and red light is absorbed most strongly. Attenuation per unit distance is proportional to the radiance or the irradiance of light.”

“So the seaweed’s dark purple because it’s--” Stackhouse’s brow was furrowed as he thought, “often covered by water.”

“And the C+ goes to Sergeant Stackhouse. The D- to Dr. Parrish for being so slow.” McKay clapped slowly.

“Okay.” Stackhouse scanned the rocky shore line. The cliffs might be smooth and unclimbable, but ahead of them was a jutting, rocky outcrop, worn smooth and algae covered, but the matt of algae on the top was a lighter, bleached red. “That outcrop’s the highest point. If we don’t find a cave to hole up in – that’s our best bet.”

A wave sloshed in, reaching with cold fingers to cover their knees.

“Now that the science portion of our adventure is over, can I suggest that we run?”

~*~

 

Sheppard and Lorne covered the last few yards to the main cave on hands and knees, creeping through the undergrowth. The scene that greeted them was out of Sheppard’s nightmares.

A blue clad scientist lay in a loose curl, a black sack wrapped around her head and torso. Kolya stood over her, scanning the area like a searchlight. The square jawed Halpern, matched his leader’s scrutiny, waiting for them to walk into the trap. The scientist was crouched beside Nagra, hand resting on her shoulder. There was no sign of McKay or the others, and the cave where the equipment was stored was partially blocked by a fall of stone.

Lorne angled his wrist and tapped his watch. They had ten minutes before the ‘gate had to close and the Genii would no doubt dial in and send reinforcements.

Suddenly his shoulder wasn’t hurting as Sheppard hefted his P-90 and sighted. “I’ve got Kolya.”

“The other – square jaw,” Lorne clarified.

Kolya spoke clearly into his radio. “T-minus ten: execute.”

Sheppard inhaled and squeezed the trigger on the exhale, and blew off the scientist’s head as he moved into the line of fire.

“Kolya has the Luck of Satan himself,” Sheppard swore.

A blood splattered Kolya tumbled away, bringing his own gun up and shooting wildly. Halpern spun on a dime, Lorne’s round hitting him high on the shoulder. A round whistled by Lorne’s head sending him diving flat against the purple leaves. Sheppard switched to automatic fire and sprayed. Kolya ran, ducking and weaving, still firing. The man was golden. Sheppard scrambled to his knees, to aim better.

“No!” Sheppard spat as Kolya dove into cover of shrubby bushes and disappeared out of sight. “Come on.”

“Sir.” Lorne scrambled to his feet and was at his heels and Sheppard stalked towards Halpern.

Lorne kept an eye on Kolya’s route, P-90 held high. The crack of trampled branches said the man was not hanging around.

Sheppard stepped over the downed scientist and stopped by Nagra. Halpern writhed by her side, clutching his shattered shoulder. Blood gushed from the Genii, but the jagged stones beneath his feet were saturated, more than could have fallen in so short a time.

Heart heavy, Sheppard crouched to curl his fingers around Nagra’s chilly wrist, above the bounds that held her hands behind her back. He didn’t need to check. But duty and rote demanded – so he could report that he had checked. He knew that no one could lie so still, with all the life sucked out.

“She took a ricochet. It was an accident,” Halpern said.

“And that makes it all right?” Sheppard said venomously.

Halpern lay back, energy leaching away even as his skin turned grey. Clinically, Sheppard knew that the man was bleeding out. An artery or major vein had been nicked.

“We needed her knowledge.”

“She was a fucking botanist. What do you need a botanist for? The amount of radiation on your planet is probably enough to kill all your plants.”

“What did Kolya mean? T-minus ten: execute?” Lorne asked suddenly.

“Scheduled early shut down the ‘gate. Pre-empt your immediate redial in.” Halpern stared up at the sea green sky, his eyes already looked filmy as if a curtain was being drawn across.

“Elizabeth?” Sheppard clicked his radio. There was no response. “Shit.”

“We’ve got to get out of here, sir.” Lorne grimaced. “That Kolya’s going to return with a whole platoon. Dr. McKay and the others aren’t here. They must have run off. We have to find them before Kolya.”

~*~

McKay set a shoulder to Grant’s foot offering himself as a step, and pushed his other foot as Stackhouse and Parrish pulled. His cousin scrambled up the slimy covered rock. Grant got his foot on a well-stuck on shell and managed to clamber the last few feet up. Stackhouse snagged his belt and hefted him up to straddle the apex of the outcropping.

“You weigh a ton.” Rodney slipped out of his vest, pocketed the radio and the life signs detector in his trousers. He pushed the TAC vest, with the others, deep into the crevice at the bottom of the outcrop, hopefully to retrieve it on the next low tide. Squatting down in the water, so it was washing up against his shoulders, he rolled a mossy stone into the crevice to better contain his vest and all its assorted goodies.

At least his laptop was backed up to hell and back. Even a toughbook probably could not survive emersion in salt water. But soon they were going to be treading water and he didn’t need the extra weight.

“Rodney!” Grant leaned over, throwing down the length of his jacket to act as a rope.

McKay caught the jacket and with Parrish and Stackhouse anchoring, scrambled up, leaving what felt five layers of skin behind.

“Ow!” He fingered the rent in the knee of his trousers. “I hate this planet.”

“Ooh, ooh.” Grant crooned in empathy.

“Okay.” Stackhouse balanced on the top of the rock. “I’m assuming that we all can swim--” he waited a beat for any dissent, there wasn’t any, “but the water’s cold and we might be in it for awhile.”

“Hopefully, we might not have to swim.” Parrish crossed his fingers.

“I hope so, too, Doc.” Stackhouse scowled down at the rising water. “But I want you to take off your long sleeved t-shirts if you’re wearing them or trousers if you’re not.”

Plainly confused, Grant slowly pealed off his – Rodney’s -- black long sleeve t-shirt, revealing a horrible old-fashioned under shirt.

“That’s right, Dr. Jansky.” Stackhouse smiled. “Knot the arms.”

“Ah, of course. Floatation aid.” McKay shrugged off his own jacket.

“Idea.” And before they could stop him, Parrish slipped off the rock, splashing into the water. He disappeared under and stood up immediately spluttering.

“What are you doing?” McKay demanded.

Parrish ducked down, returning to where they had stuffed their TAC vests. He pulled out one, glanced at it and then disappeared back under the water. He came back with another. He searched the pockets and with a whoop pulled out a plastic wrapped package.

“Here.” He tossed it up.

Stackhouse snatched it out of the air. “Get yourself back up here.”

“Coming.” He stuffed his vest back in the crevice and ducked under the water to push the stone back in place to hold their equipment.

Grant threw the length of his jacket down once again to act as a rope. Both McKay and Grant hauled the younger man up.

“What did you do that for?” Stackhouse demanded, waving the brick like package in midair.

“Sample bags.” Parrish took his package back and opened the seal. He pulled out a sharply folded plastic sheet. A flick of his wrist and it unfolded to a resealable bag about the size of an A4 page.

“Balloons,” Grant said.

“Blow them up. Double-triple bag them and stuff them under your clothes and the t-shirts,” McKay said. “The insulation will help keep us warm too.”

~*~

“The threat to my team is Kolya,” Sheppard spoke and Major Lorne stopped dead.

“Sir?” Lorne asked and Sheppard almost snorted.

“If Kolya had McKay, he would have told us. And Rodney would hardly be quiet. They’re somewhere in the woods and Kolya is looking for them. We find Kolya before he finds them and there’s no threat.”

Sheppard kept his expression neutral and Lorne for a mere second looked at him with a thousand conflicting thoughts. Then the major remembered himself and he managed to find his own neutrality.

Sheppard stalked into the dense shrubbery, the plate-like purple leaves were bent and torn by Kolya’s passage.

The hunt was on.

~*~

The water was at chest height. The rolling waves buffeted them as they tried, tenaciously, to stay standing on the rock. They held hands, as if playing ring-a-roses. Stackhouse held Parrish and Grant, and McKay held onto Parrish and his cousin. The logic was sound: increase insulation, stay in close proximity, maximise floatation – they might survive this. McKay would have given a kidney – Kavanaugh’s – to have four life jackets.

Although he would have preferred a puddlejumper.

Grant blinked against a splash of saltwater in his eyes. He twisted trying to mop his face on his shoulder. Normally, McKay knew that he would be remonstrating and shrieking, but Grant was watching him, trying to figure out if they were going to survive. He had to keep some sort of game face on.

Grant’s expression crumpled. McKay knew that he wasn’t good at poker.

“We’ll be fine,” McKay shouted.

“What’s that?” Parrish peered past McKay’s shoulder.

McKay craned his head around. He couldn’t see anything.

“Everyone stay still. Don’t kick. Don’t flail,” Stackhouse said with a horribly flat voice.

“What?” McKay demanded. “What?”

“Don’t move. Don’t act like prey,” Stackhouse said between gritted teeth.

“Rodney?” Grant said with an unmistakably familiar terrified whine.

“Ssssssh,” McKay hissed. He couldn’t see what had alerted Parrish and Stackhouse, so that meant that it was behind him.

Grant was tracking something on his right in the water. A long dark shadow eeled by them. One second, two seconds, three seconds before it passed them. It was massive.

“Oh, god.” McKay wasn’t too sure who spoke.

“It’s circling us.” Stackhouse swallowed harshly.

“It probably doesn’t know what to make of us.” Parrish was as green as the water. “We might fool it.”

McKay couldn’t track it. “Grant, grab my shoulder. Now!”

Grant grabbed, fisting and popping a plastic bag under McKay’s jacket. Feeling like he was moving through molasses, McKay slowly drew his 9mm free. If it fired, assuming that it didn’t take his hand off, the effective range would be minimal, but the noise might be a deterrent.

“Doc? What are you doing?”

A wave ploughed through them. McKay saw a reptilian eye and then water came up and swamped him. Bubbles rushed by him as he tumbled. There was no sense of up or down. A dull sense of compression rolled over him and McKay saw darkness, as the length of the beast pushed past him. It was massive -– ten-fifteen metres of serpentine curiosity. Cheeks puffed out, he made an arm stroke to the surface and air.

“Rodney!”

McKay didn’t like to calculate the odds, but amazingly, a wide eyed Grant was treading water on the crest of a wave near him. In a flailing doggy paddle, Grant splashed water. Physics was on his side as the direction of the wave pushed him towards McKay. Grant latched onto him like a limpet.

“I--”

Scales and sinusoidal twists curled around them. McKay panicked. An eye as big as a plate blinked. He brought up his 9mm and fired. The eye exploded. Viscous chunks flew. The water erupted. McKay rolled head over heels in the air before splashing back into churning water. Something hit him in the side and the little air he had whooshed out of his lungs. Even underwater there was a high pitched scream of pain. McKay plunged deeper, tumbling between agitated strands of clutching seaweed. He didn’t know where he was in relation to surface and seabed, his lungs were burning and it was going dark.

~*~

Grant snatched the scruff Rodney’s neck, reversed and swam back to the surface. He couldn’t skate and he was appalling at team sports involving balls, but he could swim. They broke the surface and Rodney drew in an almighty whoop of air and then set into coughing as if bringing up his lungs.

Grant held him, hooking an arm around his armpit and neck. Furiously, he tread water, hoping that the floats stuffed under their jackets would help keep them on the surface. A deceptively gentle roll of water took them to the crest of a wave. There was no sign of Dr. Parrish and Sergeant Stackhouse. Rodney jerked feebly hitting his head against Grant’s chest. They were going to die. They were going to drown and be eaten by marine crocodilians that belonged in the Jurassic. He wanted to go home. The swell took them into a trough and heavy water was all around them.

Rodney stopped batting at the water and drew in slow, coughing breath. “Ac--”

“Rodney?”

Rodney dropped his head back against Grant’s shoulder. He licked at bloody lips. “Grant? I think… I think… I’ve broken a couple of ribs. Can’t…”

The rising swell took them up again and Grant saw an angular rock jutting from the water. They smashed up against it and Rodney screamed so loud that Grant almost let him go.

“Grab!” Rodney shrieked and Grant obeyed.

There was a perfect little hand-hole at eye level. A dip worn by the passage of water or the gnawing of a long gone animal. Grant jammed his fingers in. The water receded a fraction as they stayed, anchored to the rock. Rodney hung in Grant’s grip, bobbing in the strangely rolling waves.

“Rodney?” Grant sniffed.

“Uh?” Rodney asked.

“I don’t think that I like field work.”

~*~

Sheppard pounded along the trail, the rhythm took his pain, allowed him to surf -- to use it. Kolya had smashed through the undergrowth, blindly avoiding their fire. But in his flight, he had curved round to a second animal track. A flatter, easier trail than the one that he had dragged McKay and Grant along. It was the trail that the visiting Atlantean scientists normally used to get to the Mineral Caves. Kolya was heading back to the ‘gate.

Sheppard came to an abrupt stop, momentarily stooping down to touch two fingers to the stain on the worn, dry track.

Deep, burgundy red blood stained his fingers.

“Minor crease,” he judged, showing Lorne. This was the colour of slow flowing blood.

“I hadn’t realised he had took a hit.”

“It hasn’t slowed him down,” Sheppard pointed out. “We go to the Stargate and take out the DHD and shut down the wormhole. Do you have any ordnance on you?”

“No, sir.”

Sheppard was going to have to do something about the excessive sir’ing. “Okay, we’ll use their AAW.”

He resumed their pace knowing that Lorne would be on his heels.

~*~

“Be brave. Be brave. Be brave. Be brave. Oh, no.” It was cold, it was wet and it was scary. Another dark shape had swum by them but left them unmolested. Ammonia in water was an effective deterrent. The waves pushed up against him, tugging and pulling, trying to snatch them from their anchor. He couldn’t feel his fingers. Terrified, he was going to let go, he kept jamming his hand in tighter. Thinking: grip, grip, grip.

Rodney was heavy against him, just hanging as if he had no bones. Like a doll, tucked under his arm.

“Rodney?”

The waves pushed them up as the world inhaled. An exhale washed them down. Between five and seven, he had to hold his breath as the waves washed over their heads.

“One, two--five, six. Maxima. seven, eight-–eleven, twelve. Minima. Rodney, please?”

Rodney coughed. Coughing was good; coughing meant that he was still breathing.

“Five!” Grant closed his eyes. Water rushed up his nose and he blew out as they were inundated. The ebb and flow of this planet’s waves were dynamically fast. There had to be more moons, pushing and pulling, creating a veritable plethora of gravitational waves which manipulated the churning water bullying them.

 

~*~

Sheppard froze, bringing up his clenched fist in the automatic signal to stop. In his other hand he held his energy detector, which he angled towards Lorne. There were no life signs ahead.

“Nothing within one hundred meters.” Sheppard couldn’t help tapping the side of the detector. “The signal wasn’t to initiate a dial in from the Genii planet, it was a scheduled dial out. To ship out prisoners or a retreat.”

“They’ve left?” Lorne asked, amazed.

“Kolya was wounded.” Sheppard licked his lips, thinking. “They could have sent through forty people. They sent through nine. I think that this mission was unsanctioned by Cowen. It was a fishing expedition – short and sharp, before Cowen figured out that Kolya was off planet. Kolya was looking for leverage – scientists, Atlantean equipment.”

“So what now, sir?”

“So now we have four people missing, one dead and a rescue mission to organise.”

They still entered the glade slow and quiet. Sheppard scanned the earth, scrutinising it for trip wires. The wormhole shimmered within the ‘gate’s confines. All the Genii needed to keep the Stargate open was to breach the event horizon on the other side. Sheppard glanced at his watch; they didn’t have time for this. The wormholes between standard DHDs would normally shut down some one-two minutes after registering no discrete particles in transit. The DHD consol at Atlantis had more control, but failsafes would not allow a ‘gate to shut down if it registered matter in en route.

“We’ve got to wait until the thirty eight minutes are up!” Sheppard kicked the DHD. What was happening with McKay and Grant?

~*~

Rodney could just cling. He couldn’t find a breath as they were tossed in the cycle of inundation and outpouring. They rose on the tide. There was a line of warmth along his back, Grant holding him tight almost crushing him. There was a keening sound, which vibrated.

Grant crying.

Rodney opened his eyes. The heavy grey water pushed them up. Rolling his head on Grant’s chest, he could glimpse the stubbly chin.

“Rodney?”

“Hey.” Rodney managed to bring his hand up and pat Grant’s arm, before another wave swamped them.

~*~

Sheppard and Lorne retreated to cover as the time clocked down. Chances were that Atlantis would come through shooting, or at the least clearing the way with stun grenades. The Genii fed wormhole winked out and the chevrons immediately began to encode.

Sheppard settled into the cold place where he was ready to act. It was entirely possible, although unlikely, that the Genii would dial in.

“I don’t believe it.” Sheppard closed his eyes as a MALP trundled out of the Stargate.

 _“Commander Kolya, we have control of the Stargate, I suggest that you--,”_ Elizabeth began using her reasonable, diplomatic tone.

“Elizabeth, the Genii have retreated. Send through the ‘jumper that you’ve prepared, now. Lorne and I have been separated from the rest of our team. We don’t know where they are. We need search-and-rescue trained personnel in two more ‘jumpers, asap. They went missing from the study site at the Mineral Caves at fifteen hundred hours Atlantis time.”

 _“Dr. Na--”_

“She’s dead, Elizabeth. We need to find McKay and the others.”

The ‘jumper slid through the wormhole with respectable swiftness. The stern hatch was opening even as the ship manoeuvred to a stop. Sheppard double timed it up the ramp. The sound of his boots against the metal plating were loud in the confined space. Three marines stood as he entered with Lorne at his side.

“Colonel Sheppard.” Beckett stood in the back section, holding the overhead storage mesh rigging to stay upright. Medical equipment was ranged around him.

“Doc.” Sheppard flew past him, straight to the cockpit. The lieutenant in the pilot’s seat was already rising. Sheppard slipped into position, calling up the HUD simultaneously. “Hold on.”

“Oh, crap!” Beckett yelled as Sheppard pulled back on the controls and powered the puddlejumper into the sky.

The obvious starting point was the caves and a direct thought sent them on a straight heading, taking mere seconds to travel the distance. The HUD revealed no immediate large life signs in the vicinity, but did register the deployment of two more Atlantean vessels. A simple reset initiated Zelenka’s new program to detect the marine and air force personnel’s sub-dermal transmitters. No signals popped up. Sheppard pulled back on the dual controls and the ‘jumper rose to a higher altitude.

“Son, let me have a look at that shoulder,” Beckett interrupted his scrutiny.

“Kind of busy here, Doc.”

“It looks nasty.”

“It’s a flesh wound.”

“There is another pilot, Colonel. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist. You’ve bled quite heavily.” Beckett brushed fingers over the bulky dressing at his shoulder.

“It’s under control.” Sheppard opened and closed his hand. “See? Fine.”

“I need to assess you, Colonel.”

Sheppard knew that tone, for the most part Carson was easy to distract or to railroad, especially if his own curiosity was pinged, but this was medical.

 _“Colonel Sheppard?”_ The internal video flared on the HUD and a semi-transparent Captain Lindfors, pilot on the other ‘jumper, appeared. _“We, Captain Armah and myself, started a standard search pattern factoring in time elapsed, maximum distance that they could have travelled…”_

“Yes, Captain?” Sheppard interrupted.

 _“Sorry, sir, long story short, I’ve picked up Sergeant Stackhouse’s personal transmitter in the water west of the Mineral Caves.”_

Sheppard pulled back on the controls sending the puddlejumper soaring over the jagged tips of the Mineral rock cliffs. The vastness of water, a smooth sea, lay before them. On the furthest edge of a far horizon, Sheppard thought that he could see the darker blush of land. Obediently, the HUD showed the disposition of land masses on P4M-792.

“Rodney doesn’t have a transmitter,” Beckett said, unnecessarily. They all knew Rodney’s objection to having ‘a radio-transmitter with a naquada battery inserted in my body’.

The map on the screen reorganised, indicating the greater currents flowing through the sea and to the ocean many miles away. The roller ball control on the consol increased magnification, highlighting the region of sea around the Mineral Caves. Stackhouse’s signal popped up, due west of their position, far out in the open sea. The other puddlejumper was tightly circling his signal.

“It’s not unreasonable to assume that the others are near the sergeant.” Beckett leaned over to examine the screen closely, his fingers traced a line of surface current flowing westwards.

 _“Colonel Sheppard, we have a visual on Stackhouse. Dr. Parrish is with him,”_ Lindfors said clearly. _“No sign of Dr. McKay or Dr. Jansky.”_

The puddlejumper slowly descended. A myriad of life signs appeared, a sea teeming with life.

Beckett set a hand on the consol. “If they’re not on the surface they’re dead.”

Teeth clenched, Sheppard selected life signs in a ten mile square area in the top yard of water. Most spots winked out leaving a wash of signs, some clumped, some individuals. A few faded as he watched, no doubt diving beyond the new range definitions.

“Rodney weighs 183.3 pounds,” Beckett supplied.

Sheppard glanced at the doctor; he was pale. “Grant?”

“Can’t remember.” Beckett swallowed. “The average weight of an adult male is 189.8 pounds.”

Clinically, Sheppard selected life signs between 180 and 195 pounds in weight, with quick mental proviso to highlight anything between 182 and 184 in flashing red. The screen re-set with barely a flicker.

“Yes!” His hand shot out, finger jabbing at the pinkish flash of Rodney McKay. Glowing, practically merging, beside the signal was another lighter, brighter signal.

Beckett rocked back on his heels as the ‘jumper accelerated, plummeting downwards to the dual signal. Insulated, they couldn’t hear the whistle of wind, but Sheppard could imagine it. The sea zoomed up before them, filling the whole screen.

Sheppard stopped on the nose, puddlejumper canted in the air, so he could look straight through the windshield at the sea surface.

Rodney raised a hand in self defence, as if warding them off. Grant’s mouth was a wide open ‘o’ of amazement. They clung to a green tipped rock.

The inertial dampeners twinged, protesting, as Sheppard rotated through 180 degrees on the spot. As he rapidly dropped the nose of the ‘jumper, bringing them level, he simultaneously opened the back hatch. Concentrating on the controls, he leaned out of the pilot’s seat looking back along the length of the ‘jumper, gently manipulating them backwards, so there was a mere foot between McKay and safety.

In a heartbeat, Beckett was clattering down the ramp, Lorne moving with him. Dropping to his haunches, Beckett obscured Sheppard’s view. Water sluiced up the ramp as a wave rose. A marine joined them.

“Grant, you’re safe,” Beckett said. “You can let go of Rodney, now.”

Back bent, straining to lift, Beckett twisted over. Lorne leant his strength to haul the men from the water.

A white cold hand flopped against the deck plates, fingers twitching spasmodically.

“Up you come,” Beckett said rising to his feet.

And then Sheppard saw them. The marine helping a hunched over McKay to the port bench and Grant on his knees, shivering violently, flinching away from Lorne’s helping hand.

Beckett glanced left and right, assessing his patients. “Rodney?” he asked.

McKay was shivering in on himself, twisting to the side to lie on the padded bench. He let out a hiss of pain. Grant was still kneeling on the ramp, feebly flailing his hands at Lorne, fending the man off.

“Major Lorne, get Grant out of those wet clothes and into an emergency blanket.” Beckett’s moved to an uncomplaining McKay’s side.

“You have the controls.” Sheppard ordered the lieutenant who he had ousted from the position.

He registered the affirmative even as he initiated the autopilot and rose from the main seat. Lorne was failing to cajole Grant into the ‘jumper.

“Squirrel.” Sheppard slid to his knees on the ramp.

“John!” Grant latched onto him, grabbing his TAC vest with both hands. “There was a sea monster, like a Liopleurodon but more snake-ish. It swamped us -- loops and coils -- and Rodney shot it in the eye and it threw us in the air. And it hit Rodney and he went underwater. And…”

“Shush, shusss.” John cupped a hand around the back of Grant’s neck. The skin under his fingers was icy-chilled. “Hey, you’re safe.”

Grant jerked his head around checking the water lapping at the ramp. Hastily, he scrambled to his feet, almost clambering over John to get away from the water. John managed to stand, Lorne lending a hand, and clumsily guided Grant to the bench seat opposite McKay.

“Hey, we’ve got to get you out of these clothes.” John knelt before him.

Grant pointed jerkily at the ramp. “Shut it. Shut it.”

It was actually a good idea. The marine, who at Grant’s words had stationed himself at the ramp with his P-90, looked relieved as the lieutenant at the helm, raised the ramp. Seconds later, John felt the ‘jumper start to rise sedately.

“Come on, Grant. Clothes.” John caught the zipper on his jacket. One handed, he tried to pull it down.

Grant hunched up, drawing his knees up against his chest. “No.”

John gritted his teeth. “Grant, now.”

Grant flicked a glance at him, surprised by the tone.

“Please?” John added.

“Okay,” Grant said in a little voice.

The zipper stopped and jerked as John tugged. Grant’s cold hands touched his, leaching heat. The fingers of Grant’s right hand were lacerated and torn as if he had pushed them in a grater. They oozed blood sluggishly, flow stemmed by the cold. Finally, John freed the zip and Grant slowly began to peel off his jacket. A plastic bag fell out with a splat to the floor, followed by another. John did not ask.

“You’ll feel better if we get your clothes off.” He reached to help push the wet jacket off Grant’s shoulders, but his arm protested loudly. Adrenalin had ebbed. Drawing in a loud gulp of anxiety, Grant slipped out of his jacket and black t-shirt. Reluctantly, he stood, stubby bruised fingers fumbling at his belt buckle.

“I got it, Grant.”

Ignoring his shoulder, he lifted his hands and slowly undid the belt. Grant pushed down his trousers revealing purple shorts. With a sullen thump, he sat, fabric puddled around his tightly laced up boots. That he wasn’t going to remove any more clothes was obvious. Lorne shook out a crinkly, silver blanket, and without touching Grant draped it over his shoulders. One handed, Grant clutched it to his throat like a cape.

“You’ll warm up soon.” John contemplated the wet, sodden laces, and slit them with his knife. Saving him time and energy. Under Grant’s socks, his feet were pasty, pasty white, wrinkled and water-logged. Freed from his boots, Grant pulled his feet up and out of his wet trousers and huddled. He already looked warmer.

Using the bench seat as a push up, John got to his feet. The lieutenant was carefully piloting them to the Stargate, the stiffness of his spine screaming that he was being as conscientious as humanly possible. John dropped down beside Grant and in the same motion laid his arm over Grant’s shoulders and squeezed.

Grant shot him a nervous glance, checking, before burrowing in. His thinning hair was freezingly wet as he tightly pushed up against John’s neck. John clenched him a little closer and finally managed to take the first slow breath in what felt like hours. Grant let out a deep sigh.

Across the width of the puddlejumper, Carson had Rodney propped in a sitting position and an oxygen mask over his face. McKay’s jacket and t-shirt were in a shredded mess on the floor with a discarded pair of scissors on top. Carson had not needed to cajole McKay’s clothes off him.

“Carson?” John asked, but the doctor had the prongs of his stethoscope in his ears and was listening to Rodney’s chest.

McKay’s skin looked white and plastic-like from cold. Red, pummelled flesh marred the length of his left side. The bruise was going to be a thing of beauty, black and purple by tomorrow, and as it healed it would be a rainbow of reds, yellows, blues and greens.

“Sir,” the lieutenant called, “We’re approaching the Stargate.”

“Pre-dial the ‘gate to the last chevron,” Sheppard ordered, “then tell ‘gate command to close the ‘gate from their side and finish dialling.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lifting the prongs from his ears, Carson rose on his knees. Like a magician, he suddenly wielded a penlight to flick a beam in McKay’s eyes.

McKay raised a warding hand. “Carson, stop it.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“I don’t think so,” Rodney said, muffled by the mask. “More like being tossed around in a tumble dryer.”

The subliminal tone of the puddlejumper’s engines shifted a notch as it automatically entered autopilot mode in the immediate vicinity of the Stargate.

“Aye, well, good shaking then, maybe. Best give you a quick run through the CAT scan when we get home.”

And as Carson said ‘home’, they breached the event horizon.

 

 **Ricochets Chapter II**

“Doc,” John said softly, as they entered the wormhole. “Can I have something for Grant’s hand?”

The light around them changed as they emerged into Atlantis’ embarkation hall.

Carson turned on his heel. As Grant warmed, albeit slightly, blood began to ooze more rapidly from the cuts on his fingers. The dressing that Carson selected was the type to cover large surgical incisions. It would look like an oven glove wrapped over Grant’s fingers.

Rodney coughed, a wet wracking sound underscored with a bleat of pain, which had Carson turning back to him, leaving John holding the dressing.

“Come on, Squirrel. Just lay your hand on this.” John held the wad of material in one hand, already peeling off the backing tape from the adhesive strips. Still a little cowed, Grant obediently placed his hand on the dressing.

 

“Just head straight to the hanger. I had the medical personnel wait there,” Carson directed the pilot, even as he was tapping his own ear piece. “Five casualties, three on this ‘jumper, two to follow. Dr. McKay: red. Dr. Janksy: yellow and Colonel Sheppard: green. No info on the other casualties.”

“Green?” John asked.

But Carson was focused on Rodney. Beneath the fogging mask, his face was marked by snotty looking foam. “We’re going to be moving you onto a gurney, Rodney. I don’t want you moving around too much until I’ve had a chance to look at those ribs.”

The ‘jumper rotated on the spot, smoothly and with the unmistakable air of automatic piloting.

“Cars--” Rodney wrenched off his oxygen mask and retched. Between one blink, Carson was reaching, hands splaying on Rodney’s chest and leaning him slightly forward. Vomit splattered over the deck plates.

Rodney’s fingers clenched open and closed frantically as another wash sprayed the deck.

“Wow.” It was impressive volume. John lifted his feet.

Kneeling in it, Carson simply continued to hold his patient as the ‘jumper smoothly descended. A dull clunk heralded the back hatch opening. The medical personnel were primed to run up the ramp.

“Rodney, the gurney’s here. We’re going to be doing all the work.”

The clatter of the gurney was loud in the confines of the hold. The marines were forced back into the cockpit with no escape. Carson was already moving, shifting Rodney around so that he could shore up his back and lift.

“High flow --15 litres -- oxygen by facial mask and, people, I want ACLS,” Beckett said as the medical personnel swarmed over Rodney.

“ACLS?” Sheppard began.

Grant’s bandaged hand was pressed up against John’s stomach, anchoring him. His gaze for once was direct, reading his face like a computer print out.

There were too many people inside the ‘jumper. John stood and the faintest edge of blackness closed in on his vision. Grant was there, at his side, shoring him up. Together they sat down with a thump.

“Don’t you move an inch, Colonel Sheppard,” Carson said without turning from Rodney. The man had to have eyes in the back of his head. Between one slight ‘greying’ and a classic Carson-berate, Rodney was situated on the gurney, its head raised a fraction. He was curled on his good side, facing them. Eyes open, his gaze was focussed inward concentrating on maintaining raspy breathing.

Even as Carson helped guide the gurney back out of the ‘jumper, he was assessing John.

“Dr. Pega, upgrade Colonel Sheppard to a yellow, but check Dr. Jansky first.”

~*~

The controlled chaos that the medical assessment suite was famous for was in full swing when John was rolled into the infirmary. Rodney had centre stage. One nurse wielded scissors snipping him out of his trousers even as the other was layering thick blankets over his pale, sparsely haired legs. A technician manhandled the Ancient scanner over to Rodney’s bed. Carson’s head nurse, Andamann, strode past John with three vials of blood cradled in her hands.

Rodney’s bared, bruised chest was dotted with leads and banks of machines chirped loudly behind his head. IV ports were installed in the backs of his hands and there appeared to be a line under the blankets going into his foot. The medical personnel worked fast. Scowling, Carson resituated the pulse-ox peg on his finger.

“Doc?” The technician had the matrix screen of the Ancient scanner manoeuvred up beside Rodney’s bed.

“Rodney?” Carson tapped the mask covering Rodney’s mouth and nose. “Rodney, we’re going to take some images of your chest and head. We’re all going to step back a fraction. I just want you to keep still. Okay? Rodney?”

Rodney slowly raised his thumb.

As one, Carson and his gaggle moved back. The technician worked fast, moving the screen up and over Rodney. Momentarily barred from his most serious case, Carson turned a piercing gaze on his other two patients. Grant was curled up in ball on his own gurney, effectively excluding the male nurse and the doctor who were trying to get him to uncurl.

From his wheelchair, John made a one-handed attempt to roll toward Grant’s bed. The marine assigned to push him kept a tight hold of the wheelchair.

“Stay.” Carson pointed. Finger still extended, holding John in place, he assessed his staff. Finally his gaze settled on the youngest, a petite, mop-topped nurse who had been with them from the beginning and still had a gamine smile and an effervescent personality. “Connell, look after Grant, won’t you, darling. Some nice warm blankets, nasal cannula, and IV of warm saline at the very least. I want bloods, gases and vitals.”

“Dr. B?” Connell asked, even as she crept up to Grant’s side a smile on her face. The stone-faced Dr. Pega straightened, essentially giving his patient over to the nurse, but he didn’t step back.

“Explain everything that you’re doing. No sedation without my express authorisation.” Instructions given, Carson’s attention moved to John, who manufactured a smile.

“Perfectly fine here, Doc.”

“Hmm.” Carson waved the nurse over who had been trying to help Dr. Pega with Grant. “Gubler, help Colonel Sheppard. Standard vitals. When Copper’s finished with Dr. McKay I want some images of his shoulder.”

“Carson!” Dr. Biro beetled into the emergency suite, laptop cradled in her arms. She turned the screen to him. “Salinity of the coastal surface water is thirty four point eight parts per thousand.”

Brow furrowed, he scanned the results, finger coming up to track a column of numbers. “Good. We don’t have to worry about a Dead Sea situation. That’s a fairly standard mineral composition for sea water. And the next time you see the marine biologists tell them to upload their data on the servers like normal scientists.”

“Already suitably berated, Carson.”

“Hmmm, Colonel Sheppard’s arrived. You can have him.” Obviously timing to the second, Carson moved back to Rodney’s side as the tech wielding the matrix screen pulled back. He drew the blankets folded over Rodney’s legs up and over his chest.

John’s view was excluded by the inimitable Dr. Biro leaning over him. “And so what did you do to yourself this time, Colonel Sheppard?”

~*~

Carson tapped on the laptop keys, calling up the image of Rodney’s lungs. Grant had reported that Rodney had not stopped breathing, but there was ample evidence – from the foamy mucous to the wheezy breath sounds – that Rodney had aspirated sea water and that could bring its own set of nasty complications. Auscultation of the chest had revealed the possibility of inspiratory rales and the image indeed confirmed the presence of minor bilateral alveolar and interstitial infiltrates.

The laptop email programme pinged and Rodney’s latest blood gases arrived. Arterial blood gases told a story -- pH 7.20, P02 42 torr, PCO2 32 torr -- and his serum electrolytes -- sodium 130 mEq/L. chloride 96 mEq/L, bicarbonate 13 mEq/L, potassium 4.2 mEq/L -- completed the picture. Carson swore under his breath; three hours in and they were seeing evidence of bilateral diffuse pulmonary oedema.

“Dr. B?” Andamann stuck her head in his office. “Dr. McKay’s O2 sats have just dropped.”

“I’m no’ surprised.” Carson pushed quickly away from his desk. They had moved Rodney from the assessment suite into the ward that held the majority of the beds.

Rodney had the bed closest to Carson’s little office. His friend was propped up on a pile of pillows, wrapped in warming blankets – combating the borderline hypothermia along with warm saline IVs -- until only his face was uncovered. Carson took in the monitor readings with the ease of long practice. Rodney was arching his head back into the pillows, wincing at the pull of bruised and cracked ribs and flesh, but striving to find more air despite the pain.

John was sitting up on his own bed watching through narrowed eyes.

“Vent, Dr. B?” the nurse asked eyes on her patient.

“No, let’s keep him on the BiPAP,” Carson judged. Apart from the first instance of bloody tint to the foam when they had inserted a nasogastric tube, there was no evidence of severe bleeding and his hypotension was responding to dextran 70 and an epinephrine infusion. “We’re not to intubating just yet. Increase the inspiratory pressure to 33cm H2O and PEEP to 14cm H2O.” Carson spoke in an aside to his head nurse, “Cut back on the saline and I want updates on his urine output every fifteen minutes.”

Rodney drummed a finger free of the enveloping blankets. The demand for information was obvious.

“Rodney?” Carson freed Rodney’s hand and held it gently. “We’re going to be increasing the pressure in your mask to help you breathe. We don’t need a vent. No nasty endotracheal tubes; I know how much you hate them. You’ll help us and yourself if you sit quiet for a wee while. If you give me any trouble I’ll have your rectal temperature taken again.”

That sparked a response, blue eyes fixing on him. The scan of Rodney’s head had revealed no evidence of concussion, exhaustion and lack of oxygen dragged him down. Carson patted his hand, satisfied by the warmth in his extremities.

Rodney shifted, feet rucking the blankets. “Grant?” he mouthed.

“On your right.” Carson gently cupped Rodney’s cheek guiding his head on the raised pillows. They had had a fair old battle stopping Grant cocooning in warming blankets so that they could monitor his breathing and administer oxygen via a nasal canula. He slept now on his back, head tipped back and his stitched hand resting on a pillow. Judicious use of sedation had been necessary, but he looked comfortable.

Across from Grant, John waved with a casual twist of his fingers. Rodney blinked tiredly, struggling to put together John, the bulky bandage on his shoulder and a sling into one story.

“Cracked shoulder bone,” Carson supplied. “We’re keeping an eye on him for an hour or two, and then he can go to his room. Strangely enough, he seems quite happy to hang around today, can’t think why.”

A couple of beds down from John, Parrish slept under a white blanket. Stackhouse, a little further down the ward, sat cross legged on his own bed. He was intent on his DS, fighting graphic bad guys. Feeling their regard, he looked up and flashed a bashful smile before returning to his fighting, thumbs dodging back and forth.

“Sleeping,” Rodney rasped and closed his eyes.

~*~

“I looked after him,” Grant said in his quietest voice as he stood by the bottom of Rodney’s bed.

“Sorry?” Carson leaned forward, head cocked. “Yes, you did a good job.”

Grant shrugged inwards, clutching his terry cloth robe tight one handed against his throat.

“Do you want to get back to bed?” Carson extended an arm, shepherding without touching. “Some hot chocolate probably wouldn’t go amiss either, would it?”

“I look after Rodney,” Grant said intently even as he watched Rodney sleep.

Carson dropped his arm, watching every nuance. “That’s what family does.”

Grant’s head switched around. A billion thoughts scrolled over his face and Carson marvelled, trying to track the mercurial swiftness. The haunted cast left Grant’s features.

Grant nodded jerkily. With a smile, Carson cajoled him to his bed. Grant bounced on the mattress and then shuffled up to sit on the pillow. Carson perched on the far end. In another hour, Grant who had also had a toss around in the spin cycle of the waters of P4M-792 would be cleared of the possibility of any complications from the minor amount of water that he had inhaled. But Carson had already decided that there would be no harm to keep Grant overnight.

“Can I have Mr. Jinx?” Grant blurted.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Grant. Not in the infirmary. And I don’t want any cat dander around Rodney when his lungs are a little sensitive.” Both looked at Rodney who was sleeping despite the hiss and whir of his BiPAP mask.

“Jinx will be lonely.”

“I’m sure we can ask Colonel Sheppard to check on him,” Carson offered.

Grant nodded sagely. “Flyboy will check on Mr. Jinx. He will come back, won’t he?”

“John?” Carson checked.

“Flyboy. He left.” Grant picked at his nails, finger and thumb on his unbandaged hand clicked. “It’s all wrong. It was wrong. It was all sharp and horrible.”

“On the planet?”

Grant brought his fingers to his mouth. “I don’t want to go through the Stargate again.”

“It shouldn’t be necessary, Grant,” Carson said reassuringly. “You’re not part of an exploratory team. That was just a little trip to let you see an alien planet and see if it helped you understand Teyla.”

Grant sagged at little into his pillows and Carson wished that he could bring Mr. Jinx, but there was no way that he was going to compromise on that rule.

“We’ll see about getting you that hot chocolate, Grant.” Carson pushed off the bed.

Grant perked up visibly, a tiny smile curling his lips.

~*~

It was all a bit disconnected. The lights on the ceiling were dimmed, but one lamp just above his head was actinic bright. The inevitable cough rose and Rodney curled around it, trying to hold in the pain. A gob of phlegm splattered on the mask.

“Nice,” he mumbled.

A rich voice, caught between a tenor and comfort, washed over him. Amazingly, a hand rested on his forehead.

“Just going to change your mask, Rodney.” The washing air that seemed to blow up his nose and mouth and out of his ears stopped. A straw was placed between his lips and automatically he sucked. It was bliss.

“There you go.” And the bliss was pulled away. A latex covered finger dabbed at his lip and mint flooded his mouth. The mask was back, hissing and pushing and wheezing.

Rodney tried blinking to better focus on the blur succouring him. “Carson?”

“You’ll be as good as gold in no time.”

Was gold good, Rodney wondered. A sharp prick, made him flinch, but he couldn’t figure out which way to move. He thought distantly that he might have been jabbed in his stomach.

“There you go.” The harsh light beside his bed dimmed. The darkness was cool and soothing. Rodney let himself slip into its grasp.

~*~

“What’s up?” John shifted his sling into a more comfortable position.

Carson straightened, revealing a slightly flushed McKay. “Touch of a temperature. Not surprising, considering.” He held a disconnected mask in his gloved hands.

McKay’s eyes were open a slit but no one was at home -- irises crystalline blue against his rosy skin.

“He’s delirious?”

“What? No?” Carson shook his head, as he took a spatula from the tray beside McKay’s bed and scraped some reddish sludge off the mask. John couldn’t look away as he deposited the gob in a little jar. “No. no. no, he’s just tired. Takes a lot out of a body – near drowning.”

“Near-drowning, is that the official term?”

“Aye, tis, actually.” Carson tossed the now sealed jar into the air and caught it. “Excuse me, I’m going to give this to a nurse so she can send it down to biology to grow some cultures.”

“Lovely.” Swallowing, John finally looked away, realising what was in the jar as Carson ambled off.

Through the transparent mask, he could see Rodney licking at shiny, gel-coated lips.

“Hey, don’t do that,” John remonstrated, “that’s stopping your lips drying out.”

The scowl was unmistakably McKay and he didn’t even need a finger to tell John to fuck off.

“Grant?” McKay rasped, “How’s Grant?”

Grant slept twisted, ass in the air and face turned into his pillows. The small plush cushion from the couch in Carson’s office was tucked tight up against his neck. He didn’t have any attached monitors.

“Looks fine,” John could say honestly. “Sleeping like a baby.”

“Good,” Rodney breathed.

John made a production out of looking at his watch. “It’s late; shouldn’t you be asleep? Grant’s asleep.”

“Don’t need--” he coughed wetly, “--cajoling. Go away. Check on Jinx.”

“Glad to see you’re feeing better.” John patted him once, just once high on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.”

Rodney blinked sleepily, more than half way to sleep. There was an unspoken thought screwing up his brow. John waited for it to emerge. Lids slumped to half mast and then drifted all the way. The switch to sleep was unmistakable; a tension simply switched off.

John straightened. Sleeping was on his agenda too, after he had liberated the cat.

~*~

The day started early in the infirmary. Grant pushed a pile of scrambled eggs around his plate. Rodney had told him that food in Atlantis was different, but this was scrambled eggs. He wanted to try the local Athosian delicacy ‘red-red’ but, given that it was spicy, perhaps not for breakfast.

Rodney’s eyes twitched open a crack. Watching lazily, he simply lay. Grant wiggled his fingers on his good hand also managing to keep a hold of the fork. Impressive. Grant abandoned his breakfast and bed and padded to his cousin’s side.

“You’re okay, Rodney.” He couldn’t rub Rodney’s tummy because he was bruised. Quaking, just a little bit, he tried to understand all the numbers and buttons and flashing lights on the abundance of machines carefully positioned around his cousin.

He picked at the bandage around his cut hand.

He didn’t know these numbers.

“Do you need anything? Something to eat? The mask will get in the way, won’t it? How can you eat with that mask on? You could starve.”

Rodney waved his hands, bringing them together in a sloppy ‘T’.

“You need to eat. You need to eat regularly or you get more cranky.”

Rodney rolled his eyes.

“You need food.” Mission parameters set, Grant considered his plate. But it had been touched, Rodney was picky about things like that, unless he was really hungry. Grant eyed him considering. Chocolate might be the way to go, melt in the mouth, easily swallowed, complex sugars.

“Chocolate!” Chocolate solved everything.

“Hello, Grant. And how are you this fine morning?”

Grant made a little, shufty sideways glance, he could see white coat, stethoscope and blue t-shirt. Doctors, doctors, doctors, lots of doctors.

“Did you like your eggs?” he said with more of a Scottish burr than normal. “It’s funny that it’s the wee little things you miss the most. Eggs – proper eggs.”

“Numbers.” Grant pointed at the monitor on a pole with wheels, behind the head of Rodney’s bed.

“Numbers? Oh, uhm, that’s heart rate, O2 sats.”

Grant shuffled closer to stroke the side of the boxy monitor on Rodney’s right.

“Blood pressure is a little high – but that’s Rodney for you,” the doctor continued. “Heart rate’s fine and his O2 sats are improving.”

Carefully, Grant felt Rodney’s forehead with the lightest of touches. Rodney jerked his head out from under Grant’s assessing fingers and glowered.

The numbers resolved into meaning. Rodney awake, and more than miserable, fumbled with the bed controls. Raising the head of the bed, he winced theatrically.

Grant clucked. “Can you help him? Stop the pain?”

“Well, the thing is you see, pain meds often repress breathing function.”

“But--”

“Don’t worry, we’re titrating his meds. He’s comfortable as can be without significantly suppressing his breathing.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” John sauntered up, undamaged hand firmly stuffed in his trouser pocket.

“Rakish!” Grant exulted – taking in the picture. The narrow breath with length; black on black, startlingly white sling, artfully tousled hair and face too pale by far. Flyboy was not one hundred percent just yet.

“Excuse me?” John said, eyebrow rising.

“That’s what you are – rakish.” Grant rocked up on his heels.

Behind Flyboy, Teyla held a tray piled high with, Grant spotted, all of Rodney’s favourite things.

“Gee, thanks, Grant. For that I’m not going to let you share mine and Rodney’s breakfast.”

Teyla raised an eyebrow. “Kh’c”

Oh, Grant thought, all that pain and scariness because they had to go through the Stargate to initiate the language function and it hadn’t worked. Grant felt himself sink down to his toes. Despite the fever colouring his perceptions Rodney read the knowledge, or lack of knowledge in his stance. Rodney covered his eyes with a hand and gave out a wheezy, dispirited sigh.

“Sorry,” Grant muttered and shuffled back to his bed giving Teyla as wide a berth as possible

“Hey guys, what’s the matter?” John asked.

“I don’t understand Vit e’ Emm-gen,” Grant said.

“What?”

Teyla spoke, “Ig ks wl, ag gkj’x, Xlj’ jdjg’f vl gnd dl-- afg vzfljf’d gh gnd Qhk’hgx.”

“Favoured by the Ancients?” John said his tone an echo.

“Some people never get the language upgrade? Why didn’t you say so, Teyla?” the doctor asked.

“K sae n’f’f qxi’c.”

“I guess we didn’t ask you, did we, Teyla luv?”

All eyes turned to Grant, he squirmed under attention. Oh, he didn’t like this – too many people realising that he existed could lead to all manner of nastiness. A little shuffle closer to his bed was called for.

John uttered dispiritedly, “He’ll never understand Teyla?”

Grant took a deep breath and said evenly, :: _I am Grant Jansky, brother-cousin of Rodney McKay of Atlantis_ ::

The first smile that Grant had seen directed at him graced Teyla’s face.

“You ozr,” she said. Grant didn’t get the second word.

“Well, well, that’s interesting.” The Scottish rumble of his voice should have sounded comforting.

Grant didn’t like the dissecting mien to the doctor’s gaze. Carefully, he pealed back the tucked in sheets, sat and pushed his feet under the blankets. A shuffle and a shrug had the blankets pulled tightly around his neck.

~*~

It was misery, misery in its pure encapsulated form. It was like being eight again and a snot nosed allergy brat. The insides of his lungs burned. Carson had twittered on about borderline pneumothorax which would hopefully resolve with -- hopefully, it made Rodney want to scream at the subjective vagueness -- medication rather than surgical intervention.

Each breath was a tight, painful strain. A nebuliser thingy had helped but Carson hoarded the magic mist.

His laptop sat on the bedside table angled over his bed. There was a brain-candy movie (Sheppard’s term) playing. Rodney wasn’t too sure what was happening throughout the movie and that fact was disconcerting in the extreme. It appeared to be about vampires and werewolves. Incongruously, Frankenstein’s monster had also made an appearance. And every single scene seemed to be an ongoing fight, or at least every time he opened his eyes an improbable monster battled a Stetson-wearing hero.

“Dracula?” What the hell was this film about?

Sheppard lazed in the chair by Rodney’s bed. Back moulded into the plastic curve and crossed feet resting on Rodney’s own bed, he was entranced.

Grant fully dressed, instead of pyjamas and robe, sat cross-legged on his bed, tapping away one-handed on a laptop. Bandaged hand in his mouth, his expression was pensive and internal. Rodney wanted to see the data output, but something like a dab of petroleum jelly had been smeared over his eyes.

Being ill sucked.

~*~

Rodney blew heavily through his nose. Freedom from the BiPAP mask was a great improvement. The nasal canula was annoying. In sleepy curiosity, he had picked his nose earlier in the morning and the gob of dried up snot had been laced with crusty clots. But it was better than the BiPAP mask. The rush of forced air from the modified ventilator had been torturous.

Rodney shifted, uncomfortable. Cough, cough, wheeze, wheeze. His life was disturbingly tinged with childhood déjà vu

The bubbly effervescent nurse, who could always draw a shy smile from Grant, bounced over holding his little plastic cup of meds. It appeared that he was on every antibiotic known to man.

“Would you like your water refreshed, Dr. McKay?”

“Coffee.” He was reduced to one and two syllables in between wheezes. But at least he could enunciate the important words.

“Dr. B. didn’t say anything about coffee,” the nurse said as she straightened his table top. They were obsessed with making things neat and aligned just so. Rodney wondered if it was pathological.

“Coffee.” Rodney drummed his fingers on the plastic table top. A neat, short, staccato rat-tat-tatt.

“I’ll see.” The annoying nurse bustled away, the jug of warm water clutched to her sparse bosom.

Rodney was fairly sure that he knew what Carson’s answer would be when he was asked about the coffee

As the nurse left, movement caught Rodney’s attention. Grant gave a timid little nod. Seeing that the coast was clear, he darted across the expanse of the quiet ward, a giant mug of coffee in his hand.

Grant made such a good minion.

~*~

Grant hovered as Rodney took his first unaided step. Grant was not too sure about this little excursion even if it was only up and down the ward. Rodney growled, crotchety-like their grandfather. The resemblance, from the spiky straight-up hair, ample stubble and the plaid robe was uncanny. Sufficiently so that Grant almost never wanted to look in a mirror ever again. Grandma had been sweet like sugar spun candy floss. Grandfather had been sharp and sour – lemon like.

There was a definite wobble to Rodney’s steps despite hanging onto his I.V. pole until his knuckles were white. The bugs in his lung were ‘tenacious, wee buggers’ and now Rodney was on I.V. antibiotics. It meant that he had to stay in the infirmary another few days and that resulted in an overly irritable Rodney. He staggered another step, heeing a wheezing sound of satisfaction as they finally reached the end of his bed. White-faced and pinched, he made an unwieldy turn. Grant shadowed his every step, arms outstretched, ready to catch. Rodney didn’t register him – intent on his target. Grant slipped by him to draw back his messy blankets. Rodney face-planted straight into the pillow. By the time that he had drawn up his feet into a lax curl he was already asleep.

Grant stuffed his soggy, bandaged fingers in his mouth and chewed. Rodney no longer had the monitors which sang his pulse and breathing. Sleeping like this did not seem right. Finally covering Rodney with the blankets, he tiptoed to the office the end of the ward.

Grant grabbed a hold of the lintel and waited, gaze fixed firmly on the floor, to be noticed.

The tapping of computer keys stopped almost immediately.

“Hullo, Grant, what can I do for you?”

“Rodney fell asleep,” Grant said quietly.

“Pardon?” A squeaky chair moved.

Grant kept studying the tiles on the floor, until the pattern was obscured by black and grey trainers.

“I’m sorry, Grant, what did you say? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Rodney took a little walk up-and-down the ward,” Grant said sing-song.

“Oh, did he now? Silly wee bugger – with barely a breath in him.”

Grant was pushed aside with alacrity but found that he didn’t mind.

Mission accomplished, he sidled back to Rodney’s bed. Deft hands had turned Rodney onto his back, unkinked the tubing delivering fluids into the back of his hand and slipped an O2 sat monitor (Grant always listened and learned) onto his finger.

“He’s okay, Grant, just tuckered out.”

Grant shook his head; Rodney never changed.

~*~

The ward was quiet. Rodney and Lieutenant Hillier were his only patients. The marine had taken a tumble while on a mission and had sustained a slight concussion. Absently, Carson glanced at his watch, his shift ended soon and his bed was beckoning.

A finger-dance across his keyboard called up both his patients’ stats. Interfacing human medical technology with the Ancient technology was an ongoing process, but what they had achieved so far was impressive. Hiller was bruised from head to toe – as indicated by the reddish flares on his body scan and increased fibrinogen converting into fibrin evident at the landing sites on his hip, right buttock, shoulder and side of the head. Clumsy little twit.

Several pathogen types had been cultured from Rodney’s specimens necessitating a complex antibiotic regime. His chest scan showed improvement with a reduced area of infiltrates. Rodney had been very lucky.

Carson propped his head on his hand and gave into a tired yawn. Tonight, he felt that he could get a decent night’s sleep. As Carson gazed into vague space, Sheppard wandered into the ward proper. The colonel was wearing his sling, but Carson suspected that he had only put it on for the visit. Some people were their own worst enemies.

Sheppard stopped at the end of Rodney’s bed and studied his friend as Carson studied him. Seeing a comfortably sleeping Rodney, the rake of Sheppard’s back relaxed and he stood hip loose. He ran an absent hand through his black hair, disordering the cowlicks. Carson dropped his gaze back to his laptop, letting Sheppard visit without the weight of eyes. He flicked through his audio files library – a book chapter before bed might be just what the doctor ordered.

“Hey, Doc?”

“Hello, Colonel.” Carson rocked back on his chair and pretended to be aware of the man for the first time.

Sheppard leaned against the door frame. “How are my… Lieutenant Hillier and McKay?”

“Hillier will be out of here tomorrow morning with a headache and a wee bit stiff – light duties for a week. Rodney’s continuing to improve – I’m very happy with his progress.”

“That sounds like platitudes.” Sheppard shrugged, abashed at his words.

Carson raised an eyebrow; the colonel’s shoulder had to be hurting and there were little smudges of dark bruises under his eyes.

“Platitudes – no. Phrased a little tritely – yes. Rodney is getting better. He’s got himself a nasty chest infection on top of his broken ribs. We’ve got antibiotics that are effective against bugs. His chest x-rays and bloods show improvement. Do you want figures? I can show you some pretty pictures, if you’d like?”

“No, Carson,” Sheppard said his tone an apology.

“Here.” Carson rifled in his lab. coat pocket and pulled out a blister pack of double strength Excedrin. He tossed it over. “I’ll be going off duty in ten minutes. I deserve a good night’s sleep. I recommend that you take a couple of them and get yourself a good night’s sleep.”

“You’re not staying on your couch tonight?” Sheppard nodded at the couch in the corner and the neatly folded, thick-knit blanket.

“Nope.” Carson met his gaze.

“Okay.” Sheppard tucked the tablet pack in his trouser pocket. “Night, Doc.”

“Good night, Colonel.”

Carson let a little smile cross his face as Sheppard sauntered out of the infirmary.

~*~

Escape had not come too soon. Rodney still had a cough that curled him sideways, and the results were disturbingly chunky, but at least it wasn’t fluorescent green.

Sheppard, sans sling, was sitting astride one of the gurneys aimlessly rocking back and forth making the frame squeak relentlessly.

“Okay, Rodney.” Carson was in his face. “I’m discharging you. But you’re to convalesce for another fortnight – that’s fourteen days. And you’re to come in for respiratory therapy every day.”

The temptation to make the talking hand was almost irresistible – however, he managed.

“Grant, I’m handing Rodney over into your care. He needs to go to his room – he can walk and then rest. I’ll have one of the new service staff deliver some food at dinner time.”

“Carson,” Rodney growled, but the ire was snuffed dead by a cough.

Even as Carson braced once side and Grant braced the other, Sheppard was vaulting off the gurney

A coughed gob of phlegm smacked Sheppard explosively right in the middle of the chest. The expression on his face made Rodney laugh and cough and then cough some more.

“Here.” Carson smashed a convenient wad of tissues in Rodney’s hand.

Sheppard stood stage struck, expression a twist of horror, fixed on the phlegm adhering to his chest. It showed no sign of dripping.

“I don’t believe that you did that.” The shriek was definitely girly.

“Colonel Sheppard,” Carson said briskly, “I know that you’ve dealt with and handled worse.”

“It doesn’t mean that I have to like it!”

“Here have a tissue.” As if by magic Carson had another one.

Arching like a fastidious cat, Sheppard dabbed at the offending snot.

“Grant,” Carson continued as if they hadn’t been interrupted. “If Rodney wants to he can have a shower later this evening.”

Grant’s head bobbed, fervently.

“If you like,” Carson continued relentlessly, “I’ll write some instructions down for you.”

The nod was sharp, definite and determined.

Effectively gagged by talking equalling coughing, Rodney couldn’t even protest as he was handed over into the care of his little cousin.

Fin


End file.
